Saturday, June 17, 2017

Poetry By E. Martin Pedersen

E. Martin Pedersen, a San Franciscan, has lived in eastern Sicily for over 35 years. He teaches English at the local university. His poetry has appeared in Verse-Virtual, Frigg, Literary Yard, Strong Verse, Ink Sweat & Tears, and others. Martin is a 2011 alum of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers.

A Shit Dream

Walking towards the clubhouse on a golf course searching for a shit pile left by Phil's dog like a lost contact (we don't golf)mistaking small brown leaves for it thenI see it on the last greenone fresh turd then Philkneels down, picks it up and throws it at at Desmond, who catches the biggest part and throws it backI'm in the middle but get out fastP. continues playing shit catch with D.Nevil is singularly amused crying golfballsI'm disgustedget my pack from the carthe white Pandaa muttered saluteleave the rabble leave for goodget a bus on the main road.

Do I meet a nice girl on the busOr find a bag of money?Anything's possibleIn a shit dream.

Sir Philip Sidney's Last Drink

Sir Philip Sidney (30 November 1554 – 17 October 1586) was an English poet, courtier, scholar, and soldier, who is remembered as one of the most prominent figures of the Elizabethan age. He joined Sir John Norris in the Battle of Zutphen, fighting for the Protestant cause against the Spanish. During the battle, he was shot in the thigh and died of gangrene 26 days later, at the age of 31. As he lay dying, Sidney composed a song to be sung by his deathbed. According to the story, while lying wounded he gave his water to another wounded soldier, saying, "Thy necessity is yet greater than mine". This became possibly the most famous story about Sir Phillip, intended to illustrate his noble and gallant character. (source: Wikipedia)

Hey where you going with that, you bloody bastardBring that cup of water over here, I'm dying of thirst, arsehole"Sir Philip, I'm so very sorry, but I brought this water for the wounded soldier next to you,you see, I hate to be indiscreet but, shall we say,he can receive more benefit."You fucking wanker, gimme that watergimmegimmegimmegimme god-fucking-dammitI hate you, damn your bloody eyesYou dare piss on the last wish of a dying hero, a poet, a nobleman, a saintLast words hey?Hey you, shitface!'Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.'

Of all these people getting off planesNot one is rightI’ve been at this airport now for, I don’t know, weeksEating tunafish sandwiches, drinking Dr. Pepper®The very person I need refuses to come throughThat gate, that self-sliding doorUnless she/he came through when I wasn’t looking (physiological necessities galore)Damn, what if that happened?They have plenty of footage of me on the surveillance camerasYet they let me stay and wait longer stillMaybe the watchers and I are waiting togetherFor the right one. I will.

Now she’s begging him to spank her harder, SPANK ME, AH, HARDERBecause she knows all about cause and effect.

One meal to another, chew chewOne cigarette and then anotherThe same conversation over and overSame words, same gestures, same expressionMy wife died, cry cry (better you than me, buddy)Money filling and emptying the marble tide poolsDoing it pretty much the same way as alwaysWill the car start when I turn the key?Will I sleep tonight, wake up tomorrowBe myselfBe goodDo I care?Is it alreadyToo late?

We Didn’t Know

Captain Kangaroomolested children (not on his show, they didn't allow kids there with good reason)Mr. Greenjeans tooafter beating them with snakesshot down lines of kids with a plastic machine gunand cut em open, and ate their gutsthe blood and gore ran out of their nosesand down their necks and throatsHowdy DoodyCaptain SatelliteMiss NancyMrs. Ward Cleaver (June)Dr. SuessUncle WaltMisterogers (Mister Ogre)(would you be mine?(could you be mine?(would you be my . . . ): disgusting perverts all.We know that now.

Exceptnone of what I just said is trueit’s not my faultwe never saw a naked womanback in the 1960’swe didn’t know the parts or how they fit togetherhow babies swam downstreamthe world had not pornographized yetand when we played Crack the Whip or Smear the Queerwe weren’t clear on that eitherwe hadn’t invented sex-edyet.

So much still to be discovered and named,so much.

Winner’s Rules

If that means sucking the boss’s cock, so be itThose are the rules around hereTo get that shiny future, a prerequisiteTo support my children who I love dear(Trenton 6, Brick 8)My ex I hate

People have this romantic viewOr just study till they drop, for what? To not live?I always liked having fun tooAnd fuck all that other shitLife is too short to look backOn what who did to whom in the sack

Keep the party going, the feeding twisterI play just like everyone else, I’m inWe’re all in the same game, SistersI just play to winBy cheating, yeah, why not?Everyone does, so fucking what?

From K. Marx to K-Mart

"The vocation of poet in America has about it a delicious absurdity. The paradox itself is enough to turn the veriest clod into a poet. Our poetry should be as crude, vulgar, thick-skinned, lumpish, arrogant, immature, and sado-masochistic as these States themselves." Karl Shapiro

From Cash, grass or ass: Nobody rides for free to Happiness is a tight pussy

black windowson black chevy vansshit hanging from the mirrorwith a big yellow spread eagle painted on the backand a postcard mountain scene painted on the sideof the sliding door

sunday at the laketrout fishing in Americaboone's farm cherryhot dogs burning on the hibachiwhatever oak ridge boys for 150 yardsglove compartment full of rubbers(if this van's a-rockin', don't bother knockin')

we studied so hard to become somethingsomething less cruelsome of us turning anger into suicideto avoid the warthe self-control, the instinctwill win outoutside the K-Martwhere our friendslive in their carson garbage and dopeunable to readRichard Brautigan.